


Escaping Bardo

by anarchxst



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Explicit Language, F/M, Graphic Description, Original Character-centric, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchxst/pseuds/anarchxst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everett Turner just turned eighteen years old and, as such, has made a huge move - from the children's ward to the adult's wing of Arkham Asylum, that is. To be quite fair, she wouldn't know either way as she was found comatose, covered in blood,  in the room her mother and sister were murdered in.</p><p>Blamed for their deaths, Ev has awoken to a life she never wanted, pleading her innocence at every turn. Worse, she's gained the unwarranted attention of Arkham's most charismatic and sadistic inmate - who is convinced that he can make her see the darkness inside of her, starting with embracing her gory past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**DO YOU KNOW** what it's like to feel utterly trapped in reality?

 

> _She climbed slowly up the carpeted stairs, each step landing with a light thud as she neared the door of the second story apartment. Humming to some unrecognizable tune she pulled out her long chain of keys, flipping through each in time with the music in her head._

 

To see a different world in your mind and choose to believe in its lies?

 

> _Towards the middle of the large grouping of copper and silver keys, she stopped and smiled as she held the lone key up to her vision._

 

Have you ever felt as if your dreamed reality seemed like a safer choice than your own life?

 

> _She inserted the key into the doorknob's tiny slot, turning it. The door made the recognizable click as she took the key out and her hand went for the knob._

 

Who  _wouldn't_  rather take comfort in their thoughts than in this world?

 

> _She twisted the doorknob and pushed open the heavy wooden door, dropping her keys back into her messenger bag. Looking around she furrowed her brows, the neat and tidy living room was empty. No mother sitting at her desk, no little sister playing unspeakably loud video games. She closed the front door behind her as she walked down the hall, old floorboards under the carpeting creaking with her every step. "Mom?"_
> 
>  

I thought I had made my choice. I thought I could reside in the safety of my own world, that if I believed hard enough...it could be real. (Why couldn't it be real?)

 

> _She neared another closed door that she recognized as her mother's room. She went again for the doorknob, twisting it and pushing open the door. "Mom, are you in-"_
> 
> _Her thoughts came to an abrupt stop as she stared at the spattered red sheets of the queen sized bed. The spatters led to soaked up pools of crimson and two figures, a small one strewn across the larger. They lied there, in a crumpled heap, eyes wide open, heads...facing the opened door._
> 
> _She fell to her knees and the world around her went black._

 

I was only fifteen, barely an teenager. My mother and sister were... (If I don't say it, it's not real.)

I didn't cry or scream or even show the pain that was shredding through me; you can't do much of anything when you feel like the wind's been knocked out of you. I didn't even follow through with the vomiting sensation in my gut as the thick red soaked into the white comforter and their unblinking eyes stared holes through me. (No. No, it wasn't them.)

I dropped to my knees and then, well, there was nothing. No blood. No bodies. And from the empty room...I heard my mother calling for me. (It was only a nightmare.)

Of course, the bloody scene hadn't been a fake one. No, minds - or especially frail ones...when they can't take the images the eyes see, sometimes it alters things altogether. Mine only showed me what I wanted to see. (Take me back.  _Please_ , just- ...I want to go back...)

I was found - I'm even not sure when - in the very same room of my old home hugging my knees, my eyes blank. (I'm coming, mom. Be right there.)

I had created the ideal life for myself in my head. I had my mother and sister, my home. It was perfect, as if nothing had changed...I had made  _the perfect dream_. So I lived there, in my pretend universe with my pretend family just like I had before that day. (Don't you fucking lie! It was  _real!_  It was...!)

I lived everything a normal family would expectedly do. Every Christmas and birthday, summer vacations...you know, special moments. I never questioned when the memories blurred together or whenever I would hear a voice from nowhere at all. I never even batted an eyelash when my family looped events and responses. After all, I was too content. (I feel it slipping from me. Make it stop. It...it hurts.)

What a lovely dream.

Little did I realize that when I would wake up from it, I would be in the corner of a bare, dimly lit room staring at a deeply shocked older woman in scrubs who had run off, yelling something about a doctor. (Janey? Where are you? Why can't I hear you anymore?)

Yes, I had been committed; I just hadn't realized it for  _three_  years of my life.

Three years of dreaming. And now?

I was finally awake.

( H e l p    m e. )

 


	2. "well, fuck everything."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hell is empty and the devils are here." - William Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how I feel about this chapter, but tell me whatcha think!

* * *

 

"Miss Turner, it's good seeing you so aware today."

I don't remember days anymore. Or maybe that's just time in general. Up until recently, days blended and blurred into weeks and months and years, and - even more terrifying - they had snowballed into one giant memory. There was no concept of time at all; I couldn't even remember looking at a clock once. Not that any one person can recall the exact time and details of the last time they've ever looked at a clock, but we all always remember that we must've at some point.

My hands clasped together on my lap, though they shook slightly. I didn't say a word to the pale, balding doctor who smiled at me with tight, thin lips. I looked at the wall to his left, focusing on a fly seizing by the light of the window. I could hear it from where I sat, in a hard, cold metal chair. The first time I had sat in that room, the metal had been alarming. A shock to my nerve endings. I'd started to grow used to it.

"Miss Turner?"

Still, not a word clawed from my throat; there was no real reason for me to speak. Even if there was, I didn't like the sound of my own voice all that much. In fact, the last sound they had heard from me were earsplitting, shrill screams for hours on end. I felt my blood turn to ice in my veins the day a lumbering orderly growled and grumbled about the stir it caused with the other inmates, muttering that any longer and one of them would've found their way in my room to slit my throat.

**"Shit, another five minutes and I woulda done it."**

It'd been eighteen days since I had stopped shrieking and sobbing entirely or, at least, I think it had been that long. The little sunlight I saw each day was the only way I could count. I'd been awake for much longer though - awake in the long term understanding. I still slept at night against my better judgment, with leather straps to tether my wrists and some tiny blue pills forced into my mouth. So, yeah, sure, I slept, but I was always awake in a sense - I was always  **here**.

"Everett?"

My eyes flickered over to the clouded gray ones across from me, but only for a second. I didn't like looking at him. I distinctly remember his face being one of the first I saw in this place, a stark difference from my mother's gentle smile or Janey's wide, green eyes. His face looked like old leather pulled over the sagging muscle. It was joyless.

He sighed and slowly shut the manila folder in his hands. "I know you can hear me. You may not realize this but you're responsive. There's no extensive damage to your vocal chords. You'll have to use them sometime."

My surprisingly well kept nails dug into the skin on the back of my hands as my grip tightened.

"Until then," he began as he stood and walked over to his desk, "it seems you're well enough to join the others in the mess hall. Do be courteous; you'll be spending quite a bit of time with them from here on."

I froze in my seat, my eyes back on the old man as I gaped at him. I'd seen no one but him and two orderlies the past several weeks. It had become habit. The way he so nonchalantly used the word 'well' was infuriating. It wasn't very long ago at all that he was accusing me of being a danger to society, slandering my name with accusations of the worst crime I could think of. He didn't know me. He didn't know what I would've done to keep my family alive. He didn't know that they were my whole world.

All he knew was that the moment he had mentioned them the very first time, I flew into a rage. He saw a crazy girl who brutally slaughtered her family, not the girl who was broken by their deaths. Not the girl who made them come to life in her head. God, it felt so real.

I fiddled with the thick hem of my black and white striped t-shirt, wishing my world could be real again as a large man with abnormally large forearms grabbed me by my arm roughly and hoisted me to my feet. His grip was so tight, I could feel the skin bruising as he hauled me down the corridor. "Time for supper, girly."

The orderly smelled heavily of cigar smoke and cheap cologne while his voice was gravelly and distinctly Italian. He was not much more than a walking stereotype as far as I could determine. A few years ago, I would've cracked a joke about taking me to the river to get fitted for some cement shoes. These days, I found it easier to hold my tongue; this was, after all, Arkham. Arkham Asylum. Growing up in Gotham, I would hear rumors about this place and what it was used for. I heard even more about the type of people it housed. Kids would run up the steep hill to its gates on dares, or at least they would brag about it. You had to be brave to go near a place like Arkham; it wasn't a hospital for the mentally ill, but a cage for the criminally insane.

The thin slippers on my feet shuffled down the hallway as I allowed myself to be guided beneath the buzzing, flickering lights. It felt like ages that we travelled down the twisting corridors before being yanked to a stop. To our right was a large metal door with a window too high for me to peer through. Even if I wanted to, it was too late. The door had let out a shrill beep and started sliding open to reveal, a bright, florescently lit room. The man with the iron grip on my bicep tossed me in before I could even squint to adjust my vision.

I felt myself stumbling, but caugt myself just as quickly. My eyes stayed on the ground for a moment, as I heard idle chatter fade slowly. I didn't want to look up; I didn't know what to expect if I  _did_. My dry throat forced down a swallow as I held my breath, already tired of the rancid smell wafting through the air. There was no choice. I lifted my head and my eyes scanned the room, darting from side to side.

I was accused of something I knew for a fact I didn't do. In fact, aside from the disheveled mop of brown hair and bags under my eyes, I probably didn't look much like a homicidal headcase. Granted, looks never dictated a person, but judging a crazy book by its institutionalized cover wasn't a terrible idea at the moment. For instance, the plethora of stares cast on me held an entirely different sentiment than mine: these people did bad, bad things, enjoyed every moment of it, and would absolutely do whatever they did again. Maybe to each other. Probably to me.

Especially the pale one in the center with the slicked back, flaming red hair and the wicked smile.  _People don't smile in a place like this._  When he noticed I spotted him, his lips stretched further as his smile reached shadowed green eyes. It was threatening, but what made me shuffle backwards toward the threshold was the fact that it was genuine. It told me a story I never wanted to know. It told me that awful things were going to happen to me here - and that he was more than excited to watch me suffer.

Hyenas. Psychotic scavengers waiting to tear me apart, all of them.

Before I could take another step back, I felt a massive hand on my shoulder shove me forward. Metal grated against metal as the iron door behind me slammed shut.

I froze in my spot, muscles tense and stomach churning so hard I thought I'd vomit.

_Well, fuck everything._

They all continued to watch me, some with hungier eyes than others, filling every table. I smoothed the monochrome, floor length skirt that I suddenly liked even less and continued down the rows of table. The spots that were open were far too enclosed between each psychopath I passed.

Finally, I spotted an empty metal bench on one side of the furthest table from the main door. The only door, rang a voice in the back of my head. It was so chastising that I could've sworn that it was my sister Jane, but it didn't feel as real as it used to. Thought made my already flip-flopping stomach feel like a knife had been driven through it - so much so that I looked down to check that I hadn't actually been stabbed.

I looked up again as I reached the bare side of the table, now wrapping my arms around my midsection. I was startled to see a stumpy man with a large stomach and bushy, brown hair looked up at me with a large, gap-toothed smile and wide, bloodshot eyes. I opened my mouth for only a second, as if I was going to voice my frustration but clamped it shut a split second later. The man who was now eyeing me as if I were an all you can eat buffet leaned towards me, to which I simply responded by leaning back with a grimace.

"Did you want me to move?" The words dripped from his mouth like foam from a rabid dog. I didn't reply; I didn't even move. Suddenly, hasty movements seemed like an increasingly bad idea - as if even the slightest jerk in the other direction would end with me hospitalized or very  _dead_. He wiggled his eyebrows. "Say please."

I hadn't spoken for so long, that the words wouldn't come. Of course, even if they did, I would've chosen to stay silent. Speaking would initiate confrontation and the man in front of me looked like he thrived on confrontation - and the people on the other end of it didn't. The only command from my brain that my limbs could understand was to back away to the opposite wall, my eyes darting all around in a mixture of fear and paranoia. There was no one here I could talk to and certainly no one I could trust. I was alone, a little lamb to the slaughter, with images of my family's insides split open and covering them flooding my thoughts. It was almost a comfort that I would most likely meet the same end, if not for the intense fear of death and torture hanging over my head.

I could never eat with my back turned to them. Not ever. Dozens of eyes followed me as my back met the tiled wall and I slid to the icy concrete floor. I wasn't even brave enough to get my own food. Instead, I sat there for god knows how long in a position I was very familiar with - fetal, and hugging my legs close. Every moment passed slower than the next as my stomach went from doing somersaults to the point of nausea to caving in on itself from hunger.

After a while, chatter commenced again, coupled with a few indecent stares periodically thrown my way and everything would've been fine if it had stayed that way. Instead, one of them walked over to me - no, not walked, strolled. I braved a glance up and spotted the redhead from before, grinning like a fool down at me before plopping on the ground inches away from me. I didn't turn to look at the boy but I could feel that stare of his burning through my right temple. I could see his fingers twitching rapidly as his arms rest on his knees but that was as far to my right as I was willing to look.

"Why,  _hello_  there..." came his low but amused voice and it almost made me flinch. I noted that he had trailed off as if expecting me to introduce myself, but my mouth remained a thin line, hoping he would take that as a hint. He sighed loudly and propped his head in his hand. "Not a talker, huh? No big deal. My friends over there have been doing  _plenty_  of talking for you."

Granted, I was curious - slightly - on what he could've possibly meant. His tone made me uneasy though, wondering what anyone would possibly know about someone like me.

He leaned further towards me and I hugged my legs tighter, feeling somewhat violated by the lack of personal space and even moreso threatened by the boy who was giving off an aura that would more accurately belong to Freddy Krueger. He was still grinning but it felt more like a feral animal baring its teeth. When he spoke again, it was just above a whisper. "You know...no one said anything about a  _new_  inmate. Then again, you're not new, are you?"

"Beat it, sideshow."

He turned away from me so abruptly to look in the direction of a high pitched and fairly annoyed voice that I jumped. The boy's shoulder slumped and I could help but look up as well. There, in the same garb as myself, was girl who couldn't have been much older than me. She flicked a strand of pitch black hair over her shoulder and glared at him with unflinching almond shaped eyes. I almost felt appreciative, but held on tightly to my guarded gaze. There was no forgetting where I was or who the people before were.

"Can't even get a word in edge-wise, these days. I swear..." he muttered. The boy next to me exhaled loudly, which caught my attention long enough to turn to him. First mistake. He was eyeing me again with gleeful smile speading across his face and green irises blazing with delight as a lone strand of orange hair fell in his face, all of which suddenly had an iron grip on my attention. Maybe it was the intense stare or the almost charming - albeit menacing and onesided - banter. Maybe I just thought he was even somewhat good looking for a psychopath. Maybe I was just too terrified to look away. "Not a problem, though. We'll have loads of time to get to know each other. Isn't that right, sleeping beauty?"

The way he said it sent a chill down my spine. Did everyone already know who I was? Did they know the story? The rumors? I shook off the unsettling feeling that crawled over my skin as he leapt to his feet, seeming somewhat jovial as he smiled that wide smile at the girl on her feet and swaggered past her back to his table.

The fair girl who had been so gracious as to cut in on the uncomfortable moment took his place next to me, legs extended. She didn't look at me at first, but instead glowered at the room of criminals. "Sorry about Jerome."

When she finally did turn to me, my face was blank, unsure of what she was apologizing for or why she would at all. The reaction I got from the room of people and the one person who had decided to speak to me was about the best I could hope for. After all, I wasn't dead yet.

"Y'know, Jerome? Guy who just went out of his way to be the worst welcome wagon in the history of ever?" She looked at me a little bit longer, her dark brown eyes examining me closing. "You...really don't talk, do you? Then you really are her?"

I kept my stare on her, although it became confused as the corners of my mouth fell. The uneasiness in my stomach was returning.

"The screamer from down the hall? The girl in the coma? That's you, right?" She didn't seem angry when she said it but the frown on my face deepened regardless. I had overheard the orderlies talking about that night and how half the adult's ward wanted me dead. The girl before me made a face and snorted a laugh. "We thought someone offed you."

_They almost did._ I sighed quietly.

"I mean, that might've been a better end. Better than this shitstorm, anyhow." She nodded to the room. She wasn't wrong, if I was being completely honest with myself. It might've been better to get it over with then and there. "Speaking of shitstorms, you might want to keep up of the whole silent thing you got going. Avoid most of these guys. I mean, _I_ won't kill you but almost everyone in this room would chop you up into little piece just for funsies, so be careful."

I swallowed, my stare wide as I kept it on the girl beside me. If I had been think about saying anything at all - which I wasn't - I definitely would've extinguished the thought right then and there. Realistically, she was only reaffirming my suspicions, but it was good to know that someone around there seemed somewhat sane.

"By the way," she began pulling out something from behind her back. There, covered in plasticwrap, was half of a thick sandwich, but too well wrapped to see what was on it. It certainly didn't look like the gray food the rest of the room was eating. She smiled a kind smile, the type that could "I'm Eliza."

I nodded in reply, still not ready to hear myself speak. Not ready to introduce myself. Not ready let anyone listen, no matter how nice they seemed. This was Arkham. Nice people didn't end up here.

"Word of warning? Watch out for that one." She pointed at the boy from just moments before - _Jerome, right?_  I looked over while he back was turned and cackled at something that had been said or done at the table where he was seated. It was so loud that it echoed off the walls and filled my ears. It was manic and absolutely terrifying, like something I would hear in a nightmare. "Even the head guy, Sionis, is wary of 'em. There's just something not right about that boy - I mean, aside from chopping up his mom and all."

Whatever facade I had attempted to hide behind fell away the moment she finished speaking and I could feel my mouth hanging open as I stared at the girl. She said it so nonchalantly that it even made me second guess her intentions. Here I was, blamed for the worst crime I could think of, for _murdering_ the only important people in my life, and someone who actually _did_ do that was trying to talk to me. Like it was the first day of school or something. Like it was _normal_. 

That's when he stopped laughing and he turned his head toward us again. That sick grin was still curled over his lips when he winked at me and I felt nauseous. I wanted to run out of the room as fast as I could, but I was sure my legs wouldn't carry me all that far. If nothing else though, there was absolutely no way I would ever let him near me again, not after knowing what he did. 

Then again, what did any of them do? My grandmother used to talk about hell and its demons and I never believed her. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. Hell couldn't have been a real place, but still, I scanned the faces in the room one last time. Not one person in there could share the special circumstance I was forced to carry. Almost everyone else was guilty. That old, pious spinster was right after all. I had entered hell.

No one was safe. Not Eliza, not whoever the hell Sionis was, not the large man who intimidated me, and sure as hell not Jerome.


	3. "i bet you have a pretty laugh."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I never knew that the light could be so violent." - Florence + The Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Seriously, writing for Jerome is the best. It’s strangely therapeutic. I recommend it to everyone.

 

I tried to hum the other day. A nurse thought I was choking.

_“Oh my god! Was she poisoned?! What do we do?!”_

To be fair, it was the most I had tried to use my voice in a very long time, so it was no surprise - to me, anyway. I’ve been practicing since then though; I’ve been humming after lights out, getting used to the sound of my own voice so it wouldn’t shock me as violently as the last time.

The surprising part about the whole ‘choking’ thing was how anyone in Arkham actually got a job. I found out later that the nurse didn’t approach me because she knew my story, or at least the rumors. She thought I was going to attack her, maybe even try to kill her. It was almost laughable.

Besides, I hadn’t gone too far enough in my physical therapy sessions to do any harm to anyone. Sure, it was an hour a day for weeks upon weeks but I still felt unsteady on my feet most days and my bones were probably so brittle that if an orderly grabbed me by my upper arm again, they would easily snap it in two. Then again, any sort of actual therapy in Arkham was state-mandated and therefore half-assed, so I was lucky that I could walk on my own these days. It reminded me a little of falling from my Uncle Chuck’s shoulders as he slipped on a patch of ice when I was six. Walking without my mini crutches the first time after that was as hilarious as it was disastrous.

I mean, I think that happened. It felt like it could’ve happened.

Remembering things before the age of fifteen was tough for me. The doctor said that’s normal with my condition. Everything blurs together like a drop of ink in a cup of water. A memory of being ten and going on a field trip to Wayne Aerospace, looking at models of things that had yet to really be used in space, but being assured that they would when I wouldn’t stop asking questions. The man giving the tour twisted his mouth into a forced smile and later muttered to a colleague, “Didn’t think there was such a thing as too curious…”

But maybe I made that up, too. Maybe that’s just what I wanted to be like. Curious. Talkative. Opinionated. Who would really know? It was just a drop of blue ink that expanded into a tiny blue cloud in my mind, and my graduation was a drop of red - because I didn’t graduate. I knew that much. I would probably never graduate. I was going to be the first in my family, on my mother’s side at least. No use crying over it anymore. _Que sera, sera, right?_

Add in a few drops of every color in the rainbow and soon you just have a cup of gray water. That was my brain, now - a cup of thick, gray water. No matter what other ink color goes in, there’s nothing but gray.

That was the only thing I was sure of though. Everything after… _that_ \- ‘the incident’ - wasn’t real. None of it. There was concrete proof of that. Video footage of me sitting in a room day after day.

This was real. That was the hardest thing to wrap my mind around, and yet it felt more real than my entire life. I would’ve loved to compare it more to a nightmare, like they used to describe in novels. Like the real world must feel more like the dream because the character would live without it for so long.

No, I was well aware that this was real. It _felt_ real. Not to say that the past three years didn’t - but those felt real at the time and for different reasons. Memories and dreams aren’t so different and, let’s be perfectly honest, most people I’ve ever known have confused at least one moment in their lives with something that happened in a dream. In the present, though, there are signs that make it reality. I can _feel_. That’s the big one. People don’t really remember pain the same as other senses. The memory of pain is so detached from us that it’s either overstated or understated, but we can’t quite remember the exact sensation.

I feel pain now. I touched the bruise on my arm from the other day, where the orderly had grabbed me. It was the reminder I needed that this was real.

No matter how much I wished it wasn’t.

Either way, the humming thing? Humming was the most soothing thing that I’d done in ages. I spent most of the morning humming the melodies of musicals that I vaguely remembered. Mostly ones with Fred Astaire. Puttin’ On the Ritz had been stuck in my head for hours. Sure, he wasn’t much of a singer but neither was I. In fact, we shared one hobby: dancing, ballroom and tap. Well, we used to. There was no way I would be anywhere near the level that I was before or that I ever would be again.

Who cared anyway? What good would dancing do me here? I’d happily stick to humming, thank you very much. It was at least something I could still do.

The door directly in front of me swung open so hard that it hit the wall. A man stood shadowed in the doorway, framed in florescent light. I took a breath and got up from my bed of my own free will. It’d only been five days and I already knew the drill.

* * *

I still felt caged the moment I walked into the mess hall. This was my fifth consecutive trip there and, if nothing else, it was helping me count the days more accurately. I could confidently say that this was the fifth time Eliza had rescued me from the other terrifying inmates. It was the fifth time I ate a sandwich that I didn’t know the origin of - and, for the third day, it was honey ham, american cheese, and too much mayo. It was the fifth time she managed to talk about everyone but herself - which was fine since I wasn’t exactly a Chatty Kathy. It was also the fifth time that I had avoided telling anyone my name. It was, however, the fourth time Jerome, the super sketch guy with the almost absurdly red hair, had managed to stay away from me. Thank god.

Maybe Eliza was right; he just happened to be the welcome wagon representative of Sionis. From what I could tell, Sionis was totally the “I need to know everything that happens here and have everyone under my thumb” type of guy. Obviously he was wealthy, and obviously he had connections. He always managed to take the time to eye me suspiciously. I was almost proud of myself; it’s hard to know everything about everyone when one of the inmates was a mute. He didn’t have to know that it was by choice. It was nice having the upper hand on those kinds of assholes.

Eliza had left to take part in an argument with Greenwood, the man that looked like he was going to slaughter me and eat my remains that first day. I was pretty on point, as it turned out. He happened to be a cannibal who specifically ate young women, from what the girl had said. Somehow, being right was mildly comforting. It was better to know than not know, y’know?

I think it was a Sunday. At least that’s what I had heard.

“Where the fuck’s Hotchkins?”

“It’s Sunday.” The orderly had pronounced it without the ‘a’ though. _Sundy._ “He’s at mass half the god damned day. Pfft, _Catholics_.”

“‘Ey, someone’s gotta forgive ‘im for all that sinning he’s been doin’ with Nurse Mayfield, am I right?” The lumbering man with the buzzed head licked his chapped lips. “Then again who wouldn’t plow that-”

It went on in great detail and I had started humming again to drown it out. What was it this time? It was definitely Astaire, but I couldn’t remember the lyrics or the title whatsoever. I could see the scene though. He was singing to Ginger Rogers and she was crying. She couldn’t even look at him. It was all heartbreaking and romantic.

But isn’t it always?

I took another bite of my sandwich with my head down, letting my thick mop of dark brown hair form a curtain around my face. I hated my hair. I used to love it though, used to take care of it. It was always long and always had near perfect beach waves and always looked like I stepped out of a shampoo commercial. I spent far too much time in the morning just working on my hair.

The first time I saw it again, I almost cried - which sounds ridiculous. It’s just hair. But something about it was just too much to handle. It was flat and stringy and greasy. Whenever I went to the restroom, I wouldn’t even look up when washing my hands. I could still see it as I ate. Still greasy, still flat - both in color and volume. Maybe a bit lighter than it had been when I was younger.

After I swallowed the last of my food, I went back to humming quietly. Slowly getting used to my voice again and hoping it would become familiar soon. _Who knows? It might never._

The table moved a little when Eliza plopped back down across from me. The voice that followed was certainly not Eliza, though. Not only that, they were singing to the same tune I was humming.

“No, no, they can’t take that away from me…” It was a male voice, that was for certain. And for a moment, I could almost remember how the lyrics go, but my humming still stops. They keep going, though. “No...they can’t take that away from me.”

It was almost endearing, in a creepy and intrusive and not-actually-endearing-at-all sort of way.

I could even hear the smile in his voice. He was always smiling. “And here I was thinking you had no personality! Aren’t you just full of surprises...”

My head jerked up, causing my hair to part just enough to see the boy across from me, and my eyes hardened, narrowing on Jerome. Of course, my mouth was still shut.

This, obviously, didn’t put a damper on the redhead’s mood in the slightest. “Not bad, right? A little sour on the high notes, I’ll admit. I’m not much of a crooner, but, hey, who is these days?”

I had already made the mistake of making eye contact with him, which was my own fault. His gaze was always intense and menacing, despite his jovial tone. I’d only made eye contact with him twice and that was enough to know his intentions. Green irises that absolutely blazed with devious thoughts. You could almost see them playing out in his head. He didn’t seem the type to hide much of anything anyway.

“You didn’t sound too bad yourself.” If I wasn’t so on alert, I might’ve rolled my eyes. _It’s hard to fuck up humming, buddy._ Even at its best, my voice wasn’t really much more than mediocre, no matter how much I loved singing. It didn’t matter; all he was trying to do was goad me into talking. The grin never left his lips as he rested his hand on his fist and I could almost see the cogs in his brain constantly going; if anything, his grin stretched further. “Y’know...I bet you have a pretty laugh.”

I scoffed silently. Who the fuck cared? No one was ever going to hear it anyway.

But he still stared at me; not in a curious way or even a mischievous way but with a glimmer of…something. Something I didn’t recognize but it made my skin crawl. Like Norman Bates watching Marion Crane through the peephole in the shower just before he grabbed a butcher knife and stabbed her to death.

I couldn’t remember my own voice, but I could remember _Psycho_. I would’ve marveled at my mind’s lack of priorities if I wasn’t so busy wanting to run away.

_Joke’s on him. The last thing this lunatic will ever hear from me is a laugh._

And, in that instant I almost shouted at him to leave me alone.

“Oh, god damn it!” I heard Eliza shout as we both looked up at her almost immediately. She was standing in front of Jerome with her arms crossed, looking mildly annoyed at his presence. “Will you stop bothering the poor girl?!” Her eyes darted over to me. “Is he bothering you?” She looked over at him, clearly knowing instantaneously that I wouldn’t answer. “Go away!”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Little Liza, _always_ jumping the gun. How do you know I’m bothering her?” He raised his eyebrows and something about his mannerisms shifted. There was more bite in his tone. He might’ve even been annoyed. “Maybe we were sharing our common interests. This may have escaped your keen notice, but I am actually a _fantastic_ listener!  In fact, I bet I already know more about her than you do.”

Something told me that this was no longer about me. There was something in their interaction that made me a bit more uncomfortable than usual, like being in each other’s presence was grating. Actually, it felt as if this had nothing to do with me; maybe I was simply a new pawn in an old feud. I was also fairly certain that neither of them had the emotional capacity to care about people. Eliza needed to someone to talk to - or talk at, if I was being honest. And Jerome, well...I couldn’t tell. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he just wanted to get on Eliza’s last nerve. Maybe he just liked making people feel uncomfortable and the girl who spent a few days screaming about her family before choosing to be mute probably sounded like an easy target. Or just an intriguing one.

One that he could push until they snapped.

Which begged the question...what would happen if I did snap?

I closed my eyes and lowered my head again as they argued, trying to picture my mom and Jane. I couldn’t see them quite right anymore. They were skewed, in both voice and features. Would I even remember them the right way if I could go back?

 _They both have darker hair than mine. The same smile. My mom’s eyes are brown like mine but Jane’s are gray._ I kept repeating the bits I knew over and over in my head, trying to manifest both of them in my head. Straining to hear their voices. _They both have darker hair than mine. The same smile. My mom’s eyes are brown like mine but Janey’s are gray..._

I was kidding myself if I thought I could go back.

“Hey!” Someone was snapping their fingers loudly enough to capture my attention and my eyes shot open to see the same two people in front of me. Neither looked particularly concerned. Eliza seemed confused and taken aback. Jerome’s eyes were wide and curious; all the while his smile never fell.

“Were you…” Eliza started. “Were you saying something?”

My brows furrowed as she stared at me. I didn’t shake my head or nod, because I honestly didn’t know the answer.

“Your mouth was moving,” she elaborated.

I was frozen. I couldn’t answer her. Letting myself speak felt like giving something away, like letting everyone in on a secret. Speaking meant giving them a name, and what if they knew the story? What if they heard about a girl named Everett Turner killing her family? I couldn’t stand hearing it out loud again. I wouldn’t.

And yet, somewhere deep in my gut, I knew something in me wanted to speak. I couldn’t even stop myself from mouthing words.

Seconds later, I was pulled from my seat by an orderly and led back to my room. I’d never been so grateful. I knew, though...I knew that the urge to speak, to defend myself, to fight back was rising in my throat every day.

* * *

Two weeks had passed at a terribly slow pace. Eliza had somehow managed to keep everyone at bay by sticking to my side and being extra obnoxious and loud. It was easy not to talk with her around, even though there were plenty of times that I wanted her to shut up. She didn’t need someone to respond, just someone to listen - or, at the very least pretend to listen. She made an awful distraction though; I couldn’t pay attention to a word she would say.  If anything, she made me think more, like she was little more than the background music to my life. She could’ve told me she committed genocide and I probably wouldn’t have caught it. Seemed easier that way, anyhow.

This wasn’t high school, after all. We weren’t misfit teenagers. Adulthood was supposed to be more like diving off a cliff and hoping you remembered how to swim. Instead, imagine being pushed off the cliff and landing in a high-powered cannon, only to be shot into the sun but in slow motion, so you know it’s coming and you can’t stop it. There’s no survival. Just inevitability. You see, sometimes people just get the shit end of the stick - unless you’re someone like me. Then you realize the whole stick is made out of shit and you look down and - _surprise!_ \- you’re also stuck in a giant pile of shit. That’s endgame. The big finale. No jumping. No water. You find out that the world is just shitty...and all that’s left is to burn up.

I had been slowly introduced into the rec room, which seemed to function more like a prison yard than any rec room had ever seen. It was as bland and gray as the mess hall, only larger and with more bars on the windows. Dim, incandescent lights flickered above tables where some played cards or chess. There were people in the corners of the room making deals for things. Sometimes phone calls, sometimes weapons, but mostly decent food. Eliza was often bargaining for things, getting away with more than I expected every time. She certainly had a way about her. She was pretty and I think she might’ve been working with Sionis as well. It always felt like there was something more to her.

Even as we sat there, in front of an old box tv that played nonstop I Love Lucy reruns (classic tv was typically the only thing that didn’t make anyone fly off the handle), I wondered why she encountered so little trouble day after day. I wanted to ask, but not enough to go against the rules I had set in place for myself. Besides, staying silent seemed to work in my favor more often than not.

That is, until, the fight.

A large bald man, who looked a bit dopey, had showed up out of my peripheral moments before it happened. He hadn’t done really anything aside from put his hand on her shoulder. Whatever that meant, to Eliza, it seemed to be a threat. In a matter of seconds, she had gone from laughing loudly at the television to grabbing the man’s wrist and, in a series of steps I couldn’t even comprehend, bringing him to the ground with his arm twisted up in some sort of wrist lock. Eliza’s knee was firmly in his back and her eyes were empty and cold.

I jolted from my chair and backed away from them, almost stumbling into an end table. Guards had rushed over at a slow jog, as if this was common. There was no analyzing the situation or asking questions. They simply pulled the two apart, restraining them and leading them out of the room. Eliza wasn’t even struggling, neither of them were. It was a little eerie, like a switch had gone off. She didn’t even look like she was there. I wondered if that’s how I looked, or if I looked like I was just asleep.

“ _Finally_ ,” a low, scratchy voice said from behind me and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention as my stomach felt as if it hit the floor. The voice was close, may be inches away. If my hair hadn’t been in the way, I might’ve even felt his breath on the nape of my neck. “I thought they’d never leave.”

Once the command to move finally pushed through my shock, I whirled around and began backing away. There, with a smile stretching wide over his lips was Jerome, hands folded behind his back.  Either that or he had a knife and was going to stab me if I got close enough. I swallowed, eyeing his every move (which wasn’t hard at all). Everyone in this hell was as gray and lifeless as the walls. Even Eliza couldn’t fake it forever. But this person in front of me, this menacing and fiendish boy, was positively vibrant. He was too expressive, too pale, too bright. Like he lived in technicolor and we were still stuck in Kansas. His technicolor wasn’t like _Wizard of Oz_ , but more like... _Suspiria_. Like 70s horror, where the blood was too red.

“You know, I have this neat little trick,” he began, taking a step towards me. I took one back. “It helped me out a lot growing up. Guess what that trick is.”

My mouth was a line and I felt as though he expected that.

He tilted his head slightly. “Lip reading.”

My eyebrow furrowed and I did the one thing I could think of as he inched closer and I inched farther away. I shook my head, hoping it would indicate that I didn’t know what he was getting at.

“So you can imagine my surprise this curious new inmate...a girl who screamed bloody murder for days and shows up without a peep, starts mouthing words.” He feigned a confused look for a moment but couldn’t hide his glee. I gaped at him, but my panic only took the form of static in my brain. I couldn’t form a coherent thought. He shrugged and took another slow step in my direction, but this time I couldn’t command myself to move. He leaned forward, with a toothy grin. “Now, I may be a little rusty but, thanks to you, it gets easier with repetition. Then, here I am, wondering who _Janey_ was.”

The static was gone. It was like...like, a trigger went off in my head. I saw her face. I saw gray eyes. I saw her smile. I saw her staring at me. Just staring. Life void from her eyes. Clothes stained with blood. My hands stained with blood. I was hyperventilating as I looked down at my hands, with my hands almost completely hidden by my sleeves.

I looked up again and he was smiling. He didn’t deserve to say that name. I might’ve been crying but all I could tell was that everything was red. Nothing but red.

I tackled Jerome to the ground and either he hadn’t expected it or he welcomed it because he didn’t struggle or block when straddled his torso and punched him in his stupid, smiling mouth. He spit up blood after the third punch and laughed, loudly and manically. He just kept laughing.

I wanted to shut him up, that was it. Why the fuck wouldn’t he stop laughing?

I stopped punching him, not because it was futile or that my hand hurt. Because I was pulled off of him. My knuckles were red and I struggled against the grip of two orderlies. Maybe it was the adrenaline, but they almost seemed like they were having trouble holding me back as Jerome got up, still giggling as he touched the blood and looked at it. Then he looked back at me. His bottom lip was split wide open and still bleeding. _Good._

“There she is,” he said loudly, licking the blood from his lip and smirking like he enjoyed the taste. “I knew you had it in you.”

And it happened. And I couldn’t stop it.

“ _You don’t **know** me!_ ” I shouted, and it felt like it ripped my throat in two.

For a second, he looked surprised. Pleasantly surprised. His eyes were large, like he was seeing something new. Something amazing. He began chuckling and broke out into loud, boisterous laughter as the whole room looked on. The whole room was watching us.

I still struggled against the grip on my arms. The sound of that laugh seemed to throw me into a rage. I needed to make him stop. I had to. I was in pain, I was furious, and all Jerome could do was laugh. He was mocking me. I had to make him stop.

Hot, angry tears stained my cheeks as I was pulled out of the rec room, hearing that sick cackling all the way back to my room. I could’ve sworn that I could still hear it as I felt a needle in my arm and the world faded from view.

 


End file.
